


Locusts and Wild Honey

by Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode: s02e11 The Hive, M/M, Nightmares, Psychological Thriller, enzyme, hurt with little comfort, memory blackout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-22
Updated: 2006-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:49:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5491082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/Rachael%20Sabotini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That night Rodney dreamed of helping his grandmother cook, watching her pull the wings off of iridescent, blue-grey grasshoppers and toss them into the pie to bake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locusts and Wild Honey

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for cathexys who stumped me in a 'how well do I know my own writing' challenge. Thank you to Montana Harper and sherrold for doing the beta.

Even without the enzyme in his system, Rodney experienced free-floating anxiety in the days after he got out of the infirmary. It surged over him on occasion—in the labs, at dinner, in meetings, even the damn transporter—and he was getting tired of it. He felt worse off than he'd been during the Wraith siege of Atlantis, back before the _Daedelus_ arrived to save all of their asses. 

By the end of the week, things were going better—food kept the sudden spikes of fear to a minimum, and his labs provided a distraction. But if he should forget to eat— Well, it was just bad. Radek was the one who had seen that his hands were shaking last night and had dumped three sugar cubes into a cup of coffee, forcing Rodney to take it, when Rodney couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that he needed to open a Powerbar and eat. 

The first day they'd given him real food in the infirmary instead of that shake-like vitamin stuff, he'd flashed on the enzyme-laced food he'd been given in the caves and had to force himself to take a bite. And that was nothing compared with the moment when he realized that there were _holes_ in his _memory_ from the enzyme he'd taken. He'd had the Genii technology in his hands, interfaced it with Wraith technology and patched up a Wraith dart, yet he couldn't remember a damn thing. 

So it was really no surprise that Atlantis's communal bathrooms—with their soothing, restful colors—made Rodney vaguely anxious, and simply watching John rinse the last of the liquid soap from his hands made Rodney's heart pound. He'd been talking with Kate and he knew how to reassure himself that this too would pass, but at the moment that soap felt like a life line to him, something that connected him back to himself. He knew it was superstitious, that the Earth soap was no better than the stuff that they had traded for, yet he couldn't help feeling bereft, unsettled and annoyed. He repeatedly pressed his own soap dispenser to little avail, with only the thinnest trickle of unscented, Earth-made, golden antibiotic soap dripping into his hand. 

With a glare at John—anger felt better than fear right now—he jammed his hand under the machine that spat out wafer-thin sheets of a grey soap that smelled as bad as marigolds. "Did you have to use the last of it?" Rodney scowled at John as he wet the sheet of soap, smushing it into a paste that he rubbed over his hands. "You had, like, a fistful of soap. There is no way any human being needs that much to wash with." 

"Don't be greedy, Rodney." John leaned tiredly against the wall watching him as Rodney shook the water off of his reddened hands and stuck them under the air dryer. His eyes were dark and sunken, like he also hadn't been sleeping well. "That soap works fine." 

"Yes, but it stinks," Rodney snapped, the stench of a pungent, super-sweet floral arrangement wafting up from his hands, making his stomach twist and rebel. Right now, everything was sensitive—his clothes chafed, the lights were too bright, and even Powerbars had too much crunch at times. How could John just stand there so...so...uhg. Rodney held one of his still-damp hands in front of John's face. "See?" 

"See what?" John stared at Rodney's fingers, giving him a slight cross-eyed look, his jaw tightening. "They look fine to me." 

Clicking his tongue in disgust, Rodney waved his hand under John's nose. "Don't just look at it. Sniff it." 

"Rodney—" John jerked back, his eyes rolling upward slightly, sweat suddenly beading his brow. "Don't you think that's a little personal, even for you?" 

"Sniff!" Rodney commanded.

John sniffed from a distance and shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest; he turned his head away and looked at the bathroom mirror. "Seems fine. It'll wear off in a couple of hours." 

Rodney shook his hand dry and took a big whiff right from the middle of his palm. "Ugh." He couldn't stop his own face from scrunching up. "How can you say that?" He shoved his hand almost in John's nose. "It smells like—" 

"Shut up." John rubbed his hand across his face, his voice shaky and quiet; he looked a little pale, maybe even a little green. He must have gotten a big whiff this time. "I don't. I." He turned swiftly and headed out into the hall, while Rodney stared after him. 

See, it wasn't just Rodney who thought it stunk, though of course John wouldn't admit it. He sniffed his own hands again. 

Now that he thought about it, it wasn't really that bad.

* * *

That night Rodney dreamed of helping his grandmother cook, watching her pull the wings off of iridescent, blue-grey grasshoppers and toss them into the pie to bake. She handed him a blood orange and told him to use the grater on it to make the zest, but he grated too hard, and blood dripped out, red shining brightly on the aged Formica. The room smelled of burned insects and oranges and the marigolds on her windowsill. 

It smelled like death.

* * *

Sweat marking his skin from his dream, Rodney pulled himself out of bed as quickly as he could, fear still pounding through him. Images flashed through his mind as he hurriedly showered, the warmth of it starting to ease the tension in his body and slow his racing mind. By the time he pulled on his science uniform, he felt like he was breathing easier and no longer trying to win an impossible race. Feeling a little guilty that he'd let the drama get to him, and _more_ guilty over his guilt about that, he headed for the security of his lab to wait for the mess to open. He was first in line for coffee, first for the fresh-baked muffins, and he spent as much time sniffing them as he did eating them, letting the scent of coffee, sugar, and fruit clear the images in his dream from his mind . 

As he ate, he watched John come in, joining the early risers, still dressed for his run. Rodney glanced around the mess, but didn't see Ronon anywhere, which was unusual. Ronon always got to the mess first when John and Ronon went for a run. Nodding at John as he picked up his tray, Rodney invited him to sit at the table, but John gave a half-grimace that clearly said "I need to shower first." 

Rodney responded with an eye roll, and John wavered a moment, glancing away and back again, before deliberately eyebrowing his defeat. Rodney noticed how red and rough-looking his hands were as he set down his tray, before settling into the chair across from Rodney. Ha! That served him for taking the last of the Earth soap 

John sat down carefully, like he'd really run a lot, and he wasn't sure if his legs might give out. He looked completely bushed. 

"How was your run?"

"Couldn't get going." John shrugged. "Told Ronon to go without me. Figured I needed to get something to eat, and I could run later." He nodded at Rodney. "How about you? Sleep well?" 

"Not too bad," Rodney lied. "Busy day planned."

"Yeah. Me, too."

After that, they ate together in blissful morning near-silence; John didn't seem to be in a talkative mood today, not that he normally was. But when Rodney didn’t spend breakfast discussing his theories and insights into life in Atlantis, he noticed John’s silence more. Plus John wasn't kidding about the smell, either, which was weird if he hadn't gone running. Maybe he'd just sweated a lot last night? Rodney had, after all. It wasn't too bad; maybe if Rodney wasn't so sensitive, he wouldn't even notice. And actually, it was a good kind of scent, real and earthy, like the coffee and the muffins he ate. Dreams had a way of twisting things sometimes, and Rodney hated it. 

But John...John smelled really good. He leaned a little closer, and felt himself start to relax for the first time in days. 

"I told you I needed a shower," John said, staring down at his tray, picking at his fruit cup. "You don't have to keep sniffing me to remind me." 

An image of John back at Ford’s caves darted through Rodney's mind, his skin glistening with sweat, bruises sharp on his legs. The image skittered away before he could really look at it, and when he focused back on the room, John was looking oddly at him, tight white lines drawn on his brow and face. 

"You okay?"

"Yeah, fine." Rodney cleared his throat. "Just sometimes. I remember things. From, uh, back at the —" He gestured behind him with his thumb. "At Ford's." 

"Ah." John looked away, and Rodney cleared his throat.

"There was this kid I remember. Blond. Not bad looking. Smart. I know he helped me with the dart, but I can't remember his name." 

"Jace," John said softly. "His name was Jace."

"What, uh, happened to him?" Rodney's heart was pounding and John threw a napkin over his uneaten food and stood. 

"He didn't make it back." John swallowed, his hands tightening on this tray. "None of them made it back." 

"Oh." Rodney stared after John, watching as he threw a completely good breakfast away. 

* * *

Simpson seemed to have found the Ancient equivalent of a scented candle, and the lab smelled like vanilla for most of the day. Which was fine with Rodney—he liked vanilla—though he really wanted a cookie by the time dinner rolled around. 

He was lucky that night, and the cooks served maple sugar cookies along with the soybean-substitute meatballs ladled over long-grain rice. There was even gravy, which made the dinner one of the best they'd had in weeks. 

The arrival of the _Daedalus_ always meant a feast. 

The leafy green vegetables were still the same, though, and they smelled a little odd tonight, like the cook had added some sort of vinegar to them. "What do you think this smells like?" he asked John and shoved a forkful of wilted vegetables at his nose. 

"What is it with you and smelling?" John pushed himself away from the table, his skin turning pale. "God, that's just. Disgusting." He picked up his tray and shoved everything into the dirty dishes pile, leaving most of his food uneaten. 

Rodney sniffed at the food on his fork again, then took a healthy bite. Yeah, they'd gone really heavy on the vinegar. 

* * *

His dad was cooking this time, in the old house they'd lived in back in Calgary, before the recession drove them to Toronto. It had once been a bunk house, and been remodeled a half-dozen times when they bought it, so it had nooks and crannies that didn't exist in modern homes. There was a place back behind the pantry that Rodney used to pretend was a cave, and he'd hide in it so he could jump out and scare his sister. 

This time though, it was a real cave, with muddy grey walls and living room curtains. His dad had Jeanie shackled to the walls, scooping a thick, golden honey off of her skin. He drizzled it over their dinner salad, making the room smell like sweet rice vinegar. 

And Rodney didn't have to jump out for her to be scared.

He went early for coffee that morning too.

* * *

Rodney checked his watch—huh, the mess was almost closed, and no John. The thought made him pause momentarily, his fork half-way to his mouth. He stuffed the bite of wilted yellow beans in his mouth—he'd skipped the salads today—and realized that he hadn't seen John really eat anything since he'd gotten back from Ford's planet. The half-finished meal from yesterday was pretty typical, and Rodney realized that something had to be wrong. John had the metabolism of a hummingbird, and usually he gave both Ronon and Rodney a run for their money on meatloaf night. 

Maybe John was coming down with something. Who knew what he might have picked up on the Hive ship. But surely Beckett would have seen it when he did the post-mission screening after they all came back. 

Unless everyone was so caught up with Ronon and Teyla...hmmm.

Pursing his lips, Rodney pulled his blue Jell-o toward him, leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room. John still hadn't come in, so maybe Rodney would just wait here until he arrived. Just to make sure that he ate. 

Only John never showed up.

* * *

Next day, John was supposed to meet him at the firing range right before lunch, but he never showed. Rodney tried raising him on the radio, but got no answer. On his way to John's room, he ducked into the infirmary, just to make sure nothing was seriously wrong. Like there had been a bug-relapse or something. 

"He's off duty, Rodney. Didn't you get the memo?"

"I, uh, haven't been on email today." There had been a few hundred emails sitting in his in-box after his little trip to Ford's Neverland, and Rodney was letting them age. 

"Ah. The colonel's got a virus," Carson said, shaking his head. "Fever and nausea, mostly. Nothing odd in his bloodwork, and the fever's under control with acetaminophen, so I sent him back to his room to sleep." 

"Oh." Well, that would explain the smell sensitivity, and the fact that John wasn't eating, and his faded looks. As Rodney turned to say his good-byes, he caught something in Carson's gaze—part pity, part empathy, part anger—that stalled his thought process. 

"Rodney? Was there something else?" The look was gone, now, and Carson's clear blue eyes held no more insight into what might have gone on, but that single look was enough; there was more to John's illness than simple flu, but Carson wasn't going to tell. 

"No, uhm, I'm fine, really." Rodney clutched his laptop to his chest. "Do you think he's up for visitors, as I—" 

Carson was already shaking his head. "No visitors, I'm afraid. He needs his rest, at the moment. Give him some time." 

When he squeezed Rodney's shoulder, Rodney wondered if John were dying; he hid out in his lab for the rest of the day. 

* * *

Dream-imagery sucked. Rodney stood with his arms folded across his chest, staring at the kittens playing next to the rusting harvester he'd been working on. Why couldn't his subconscious just come out and tell him things, rather than hinting at it in dreams. Details changed, but the theme stayed the same. As he had each time before, he walked slowly toward the battered red pickup truck, the Albertan sun beating down on his bare head, jeans rubbing against his sweating thighs, work boots heavy as lead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He slowed to a stop by the truck and peeked inside, sighing heavily at the pocket knife and warm, half-eaten log of sausage inside. His uncle had eaten that every day for lunch, and the smell of it was pretty overwhelming at times. Even here in the dream, the fetid stench of it nauseated him. He backed away, getting some distance between himself and the truck, gasping for air, trying to breathe. Sweat trickled down his back. 

God, he hated farming. He hated the dirt and the smell of silage, the rusted bailing wire and the fence posts with dry rot. One month every summer from ages nine to fourteen, he worked on his uncle's farm and hated every moment of it. His mom made him go because she couldn't cope, while his dad thought it would teach him discipline. 

What it taught him was that he really hated farming.

So why his brain kept returning here, he had no clue. Talking with Heightmeyer about any of this was an exercise in futility, and there was no way in hell he was ever going to mention any of his dreams to any of the new age-ish yah-yahs in anthropology. That would be three times the humiliation for none of the benefit. He would just have to wait for his subconscious to make things a little more plain, and go with that. 

The door to the weather-beaten farmhouse was standing ajar, so Rodney threaded his way past the screen door and into the kitchen of the house. As he did each time this dream appeared, he pulled a beer out of the case next to the refrigerator—you know, he'd never really gotten used to cold beer, the way they served it back in America—twisted the top off, and drank it down. 

It was funny how good it tasted at room temperature, warm and familiar. Just— 

"Rodney?" John's voice sounded like it was coming from upstairs. 

Carefully setting the bottle on the countertop, Rodney stared through the archway between the kitchen and living room, at the narrow staircase that led to the upper floor. This was the first time he'd heard John in one of these dreams. Usually he just wandered around until he discovered a dead body someplace—and he really, really hoped that this time, it wasn't John. 

In fact, he kinda felt sick at the thought. Rodney pressed his hands against his stomach and swallowed back the bile. Maybe that beer hadn't been such a good idea after all. 

"Rodney?" The voice again, a little louder now, confused but not scared. Rodney's hand trembled, knocking against the glass. The first time, he'd seen Teyla dead by the pickup truck, her throat ripped open the way a pack of dogs ripped up a squirrel—the sight of that was one of his not-so-favorite memories of life on his uncle's farm. 

The second time, it was Elizabeth in the kitchen, her desiccated, shrunken remnants all that remained of a Wraith feeding. But even that was better than last night, when he found what they'd done with Zelenka. Rodney could still feel the blood on his hands and tried to wipe it away. 

The dream always ended when he found the body. He could stay here and be terrorized by the thought of what his subconscious might do to John, or he could actually go upstairs and see what had been done—maybe it was only something like keeping his head in a jar. Hopefully something more _Twilight Zone_ than Stephen King. 

This whole thing was grossly unfair. He never even read anything by King, so why— 

He heard the creak of the stair steps and a heavy thud of something moving. Rodney swallowed, and felt sweat—cold sweat, not the sweat of working outside under the summer sun—break out along his arms and the back of his neck. Something wasn't right here, the air practically vibrated with it, and he wanted—needed—to run away. 

Fuck it, though. The damn dream wouldn't let him. He rubbed his hand over his face. This was why he had spent part of his twenties learning about lucid dreaming, so crap like this couldn't happen. He repeated his manta to himself: no fucking way was a dream going to get the better of him. A dream had no real impact on his waking life. It was all just once upon a time.... 

The moment he saw John's blue, lizard-skinned leg land on the stairs was the moment he bolted for the nearest door; of course John immediately leapt up and over the railing, landing in front of him before Rodney could get anywhere. 

"Rodney." His voice was rough and cracked like his skin, the sounds sibilant and slurred. He was half-man, half-Iratus bug, like the glimpse Rodney had of him under the infirmary sheets, but this time, he was completely unclothed. John tilted his head slightly and sniffed. "Uhm. Smell good." He stalked forward, his body moving more like an insect than a man, rather like a preying mantis on a nature show. He leaned forward, his still-human nose burying itself into Rodney's armpit, blue insect arm grabbing Rodney's wrist and holding tight. "You smell like Wraith." 

The dream broke. Shivering, shaking, sweat popping up all over his body, fist curled around his cock, Rodney's eyes snapped open and he was breathing heavily in his bed back on Atlantis. 

Blinking up at the ceiling, Rodney realized that he was awake, but he couldn't shake the feelings from the dream. He sat up slowly, pulling the covers close around him, and running his fingers through his hair. He stared down at the government-issue blanket, not seeing it, replaying the images from his dream in his mind's eye. 

Not dreams, though. Memories. Memories of something that happened while he was under the influence of the Wraith enzyme. The thought drove him up from the bed, made Rodney rub his hands up and down his goosefleshed arms. 

Memories. Not dreams. Memories of want, of hunger, of need. He paced across the floor of his room and threw himself into a chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. Fuck. Maybe he really should see Heightmeyer about this. 

His eyes snapped open. No. He would pay John a visit.

* * *

The door wouldn't let him in, but it did turn translucent enough that Rodney could see the vague shape of John inside. He ran his hand over the light panel, calling out as he did "Colonel, are you alive?" 

The shape on the bed moved, slowly, feet dragging across the floor, and then John pressed his hand on the panel to let him inside. "Atlantis isn't speaking to me," he grumbled. "I think Beckett's told the system to keep people out." 

John looked like hell. His hair tumbled lanky into his face, his eyes were more bloodshot than hazel, and his cheeks were dark with beard stubble; Rodney put his hand up to check John's temperature, only to be startled as John stumbled away. "I just got up," John said, waving a hand toward the bed. "I'm fine." 

"Fine. Right." The words tumbled out as the door closed behind Rodney as he followed John back to his bed. "I know what happened. I was a little confused at the time, but...I remembered. I know." Pushing John onto the mattress, he tugged at John's shirt, jerking it up to reveal a series of long, deep scratches on his ribs, just under his left arm, the flesh around it the brown-gold of a old bruise. "You didn't get those in the firefight on the Hive ship." He'd spent almost a week in the infirmary as he went through withdrawal; a week was enough time for bruises to look like that. 

John briefly closed his eyes, holding his jaw and neck stiff as he opened them. "Rodney—" 

"I didn't mean to hurt you." Rodney wasn't sure what he'd meant to do at all. He remembered being afraid that someone would hear them, pressing his hand over John's mouth lightly at first, and then gagging him. He remembered the feel of John's wrists held tight in his own as he pushed them deep into the bed, the way he’d talked endlessly while he held John down: "Gonna fuck you. Gonna fuck you so hard I'm finally going to get inside of you." John had struggled then, and Rodney had kissed him quiet. "Just gotta use enough lube, gotta make it easy, so it's like a knife through butter." He slipped his fingers into John then, rotating them while John groaned. "I'll show you. I'll show you how good it is. How good your ass is. How good—" 

He remembered it all. He remembered the fear in John's eyes, too. 

"I wanted it," John said, straightening abruptly. "I wanted you to fuck me. I asked for it." 

Rodney's stomach twisted and turned inside him; he pressed his hand to his stomach, afraid he was going to throw up. "I'm sure you did; must have been after I gagged you," he gritted out, hands tightening into fists. "Do you think saying that somehow makes it all better?" 

John laid his hand on Rodney's arm, then let if fall away uselessly. "Rodney, I—I—" His face scrunched up, losing all of the easiness that he'd been trying to maintain. "Sometimes I like it rough." 

Rodney couldn't help staring at John, who was insisting at looking at the floor. He wasn't sure if John was offering him an out, or if he really felt that way, or...what the hell that might mean. If he thought dream imagery was vague, John's verbal skills were even worse. "You are such a God-damned liar." He paused as an idea struck him. "You don't even have the flu, do you?" 

"Rodney, let's not get into it." He sighed heavily. "Yeah, I've got a little infection, that's all. I scraped against something on the Hive ship, and it didn't heal like it should." 

"Don't try to charm me, Sheppard. I'm not in the mood."

"Okay, maybe you were a little enthusiastic."

"Oh my god." Rodney sat down hard on the chair, his legs unable to hold his weight. "There was blood, wasn't there? Something tore." 

"Nothing tore, okay?" His lips pursed into a weird half-grin. "Nothing major, anyway. Little tears...can happen." 

Rodney jerked his head up and stared at John. What the hell...?

"Even when you're careful—"

"This is all my fault—" Rodney broke in, and he could hear his voice rising to near-panic levels. "I, I, I held you down. I—" He swallowed. "I wanted to make you mine." 

_Mine._ Mine, with all the intensity of the Wraith enzyme coursing through his system, Rodney had wanted something primal and predatory; a Wraith feeling that had no words, but had to be done: to make John his, John had to smell like him, like a part of his Hive. So Rodney had covered John in his scent, his sweat, his semen. Those scrapes on his chest? The Wraith hadn't done that. Rodney had, when he scratched and clawed and made John his own. 

He's made John smell it, too. Rubbing his hand across the mixture of fluids dotting John's chest, and shoved his hand under John's nose, just as he had that day in the bathroom. _Smell how you're mine._ He couldn't breathe, the bands on his chest were so tight, and he could feel the nails on his hand digging into his palms. There was no way to come back from this. Distantly, he heard himself speaking, his own voice tiny in his ears. "I am so, so sorry, John. So sorry." 

John's head jerked up and his eyes narrowed; he pushed himself up, wrapping his legs underneath him, sitting close enough that he brushed against Rodney's arm as he moved. "It was my choice. I could have fought you." His voice was low and smoky, full of determination. Their gazes locked, and Rodney's breathe stuttered, great gasps alternating with little hitches from the strength of the emotion he saw there. John shoved his hand through his hair. "I knew what you were going through, or at least, I guessed." 

With those words, John made a space between them that Rodney couldn't find on his own, and suddenly, Rodney could breathe normally again, and the rush of air made him slightly dizzy. He was wrong; this hadn't broken them. John knew they were stronger than that, and this time, Rodney was willing to agree with him. 

Okay, fine. Whatever. If that was how John wanted to play it, to minimize it, try to make it all sound bizarrely normal, well, Rodney guessed he had to be willing to go along with it. He was the one who glanced away. "You guessed?" 

"How about I tell you a little story, about what it's like to be an Iratus bug. See those guys? They're _insects_ and they don't go for the soft and gentle thing." He puffed out a deep breath. "I almost shoved Elizabeth through a wall, and I wanted to...take Teyla." 

"Oh my god." Images flashed through his mind, the things he'd done to John, and John wanting to do them to Teyla. The force of it made him tremble, and he shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. 

"Yeah," John said ruefully. "Their mating habits are kind of...well, odd." 

"What...do they do?"

"Let's just say if it's not dead, it's got potential." John tilted his head slightly and made a face. "And I'm not really sure about the dead thing." 

"So...we're okay? You're okay?"

"I'm fine, Rodney. Beckett said rest and antibiotics, and in a few days—" He paused and looked at Rodney. "Do you know how weird it is to have Beckett say 'sodomized'?" 

"Frankly, no. And I hope it's something I never have to."

"It's not something I look forward to hearing ever again." He brushed his hand against Rodney's shoulder. 

Rodney laid his hand over John's, holding him there, letting the warm seep into his muscles. It felt good like this, the two of them, together, and he wished desperately that there could be more. "So, ah, do you ever...?" 

John's eyes squinched up in his "duh, Rodney" look. "Yeah, I have." 

"And this didn't put you off...?" Rodney waved his hand between the two of them. 

"No." John's smile was kind as he gave Rodney's shoulder a final squeeze, then lay back down, his exhaustion apparent. "But it was rougher than I usually like." 

"That's good. That it didn't put you off, I mean." Rodney drew a few infinity symbols on the blanket. "That other thing's good too, as I don't think I can do rough a lot. I'm just. Really. Not that kind of a guy." He licked his lips, and looked at John, capturing his gaze. "If you think you might. Want to. When neither one of us is—" 

"Part-Wraith?"

"Yeah." Rodney sighed in relief as John smiled.

"That might be nice." He threaded his hand through Rodney's, and tugged. "Lie down with me?" 

Rodney toed off his shoes and lay down, pressing himself against John's back. "This isn't the last of it, you know. I'll need to talk to Heightmeyer." 

John snorted, and his words came out in a half-mumble. "You always talk with Heightmeyer." 

Okay, yeah, that was true. "You should too. I don't want you totally freaking out on me." 

John twisted slightly so he could look at Rodney. "This is the Pegasus Galaxy. How is this any different from anything else that I've done?" He closed his eyes and sighed. "Just relax, Rodney. We'll figure it out." 

Rodney tucked his head against John's neck, throwing an arm over John's chest, and thought maybe, perhaps, they could. He let John's scent wash over him as he breathed, anchoring him to John's bed and shielding him from his dreams.


End file.
